he turned to face Mrs. Ellsler entering with _Iago_ and her attendants.

Looking utterly bewildered, he exclaimed: "Why, for G.o.d's sake, Effie, you are not going on for _Desdemona_, are you?"

Perhaps his dissatisfaction may be better understood if I mention that a young man twenty-three years old, who took tickets at the dress-circle door, called Mrs. Ellsler mother, and that middle-aged prosperity expressed itself in a startling number of inches about the waist of her short little body. Though her feet and hands were small in the extreme, they could not counteract the effect of that betraying stodginess of figure. Mrs. Ellsler, in answer to that rude question, laughed, and said: "Well, I believe the leading woman generally does play _Desdemona_?"

"But," cried Mr. Davenport, "where's--w-who's _Emilia_?"

Mr. Ellsler took him by the arm and led him a little to one side. Several sharp exclamations escaped the star's lips, and at last, aloud and ending the conference, he said: "Yes, yes, John, I know anyone may have to twist about a bit now and then in a cast, but d.a.m.n me if I can see why you don't cast Effie for _Emilia_ and this girl for _Desdemona_--then they would at least look something like the parts. As it is now, they are both ridiculous!"

It was an awful speech, and the truth that was in it made it cut deep.

There were those on the stage who momentarily expected the building to fall, so great was their awe of Mrs. Ellsler. The odd part of the unpleasant affair was that everyone was sorry for Mr. Ellsler, rather than for his wife.

Well, night came. I trailed about after _Desdemona_--picked up the fatal handkerchief--spoke a line here and there as Shakespeare wills she should, and bided my time as all _Emilias_ must. Now I had noticed that many _Emilias_ when they gave the alarm--cried out their "Murder!

Murder!" against all the noise of the tolling bells, and came back upon the stage spent, and without voice or breath to finish their big scene with, and people thought them weak in consequence. A long hanging bar of steel is generally used for the alarm, and blows struck upon it send forth a vibrating clangor that completely fills a theatre. I made an agreement with the prompter that he was not to strike the bar until I held up my hand to him. Then he was to strike one blow each time I raised my hand, and when I threw up both hands he was to raise Cain, until I was on the stage again. So with throat trained by much shouting, when in the last act I cried:

"I care not for thy sword; I'll make thee known, Though I lost twenty lives."

I turned, and crying:

"Help! help, ho! help!"

ran off shouting,

"The Moor has killed my mistress!"

then, taking breath, gave the long-sustained, ever-rising, blood-curdling cry:

"Murder! Murder! Murder!"

One hand up, and one long clanging peal of a bell.

"Murder! Murder! Murder!"

One hand up and bell.

"Murder! Murder! Murder!"

Both hands up, and pandemonium broken loose--and, oh, joy! the audience applauding furiously.

"One--two--three--four," I counted with closed lips, then with a fresh breath I burst upon the stage, followed by armed men, and with one last long full-throated cry of "Murder! the Moor has killed my mistress!"

stood waiting for the applause to let me go on. A trick? yes, a small trick--a mere pretence to more breath than I really had, but it aroused the audience, it touched their imagination. They saw the horror-stricken woman racing through the night--waking the empty streets to life by that ever-thrilling cry of "Murder!" A trick if you like, but on the stage "success" justifies the means, and that night, under cover of the applause of the house, there came to me a soft clapping of hands and in m.u.f.fled tones the words: "Bravo--bravo!" from _Oth.e.l.lo_.

When the curtain had fallen and Mr. Davenport had been before it, he came to me and holding out his hands, said: "You splendid-lunged creature--I want to apologize to you for the thoughts I harbored against you this morning." I smiled and glanced uneasily at the clock--he went on:

"I have always fancied my wife in _Emilia_, but, my girl, your readings are absolutely new sometimes, and your strength is--what's the matter? a farce yet? well, what of it? you, _you_ have to go on in a farce after playing Shakespeare's _Emilia_ with E. L. Davenport? I'm d.a.m.ned if I believe you!"

And I gathered up my cotton-velvet gown and hurried to my room to don calico dress, white cap and ap.r.o.n, and then rush down to the "property-room" for the perambulator I had to shove on, wondering what the star would think if he knew that his _Emilia_ was merely walking on in the farce of "Jones's Baby," without one line to speak, the second and speaking nursemaid having very justly been given to one of the other girls. But the needless sending of me on, right after the n.o.ble part of _Emilia_, was evidently a sop thrown by my boldly independent manager to his ballet--Cerberus.

Heretofore stars had advised or chided me privately, but, oh, dear, oh, dear! next morning Mr. Davenport attacked Mr. Ellsler for "mismanagement," as he termed it, right before everybody. Among other things, he declared that it was a wound to his personal dignity as a star to have a girl who had supported him, "not acceptably, but brilliantly,"

in a Shakespearian tragedy, sent on afterward in a vulgar farce. Then he added: "Aside from artistic reasons and from justice to her--good Lord!

John, are you such a fool you don't understand her commercial value? Here you have a girl, young and pretty" (always make allowances for the warmth of argument), "with rare gifts and qualifications, who handles her audience like a magician, and you cheapen her like this? Placing her in the highest position only to cast her down again to the lowest. If she is only fit for the ballet, you insult your public by offering her in a leading part; if she's fit for the leading part, you insult her by lowering her to the ballet; but anyway I'm d.a.m.ned if I ever saw a merchant before who deliberately cheapened his own wares!"

If the floor could have opened I would have been its willing victim, and I am sure if Mr. Davenport had known that I would have to pay for every sharp word spoken, he would have restrained his too free speech for my sake--even though he was never able to do so for his own.

And what a pity it was, for he not only often wounded his friends, but worse still, he injured himself by flinging the most boomerang-like speeches at the public whenever he felt it was not properly appreciating him. He was wonderfully versatile, but though versatility is a requisite for any really good actor, yet for some mysterious reason it never meets with great success outside of a foreign theatre. The American public demands specialists--one man to devote himself solely to tragedy, another to romantic drama and duels, another to dress-suit satire. One woman to tears, another to laughter, and woe betide the star who, able to act both comedy and tragedy, ventures to do so; there will be no packed house to bear witness to the appreciation felt for such skill and variety of talent.

Mr. Davenport's vogue was probably waning when I first knew him. He had a certain intellectual following who delighted in the beautiful precision and distinctness of his reading of the royal Dane. He always seemed to me a _Hamlet_ cut in crystal--so clear and pure, so cold and hard he was.

The tender heart, the dread imaginings, the wounded pride and love, the fits and starts, the pain and pa.s.sion that tortures _Hamlet_ each in turn, were utterly incompatible with the fair, highbrowed, princely philosopher Mr. Davenport presented to his followers. And after that performance I think he was most proud of his "horn-pipe" in the play of "Black-Eyed Susan"; and he danced it with a swiftness, a lightness, and a limberness of joint that were truly astonishing in a man of his years.

Legend said that in London it had been a great "go," had drawn--oh, fabulous shillings, not to mention pounds--but I never saw him play _William_ to a good house, never--neither did I ever see the dance _encored_. The people did not appreciate versatility, and one night, while before the curtain in responding to a call, he began a bitter tirade against the taste of the public--offering to stand there and count how many there were in the house, and telling them that next week that same house would not hold all who would wish to enter, for there would be a banjo played by a woman, and such an intellectual treat was not often to be had, but they must not spend all their money, he was even now learning to swallow swords _and_ play the _banjo_; he was an old dog now, but if they would have a little patience he would learn their favorite tricks for them, even though he could not heartily congratulate them on their intelligence, etc., etc. Oh, it was dreadful taste and so unjust, too, to abuse those who were there for the fault of those who remained away.

However, during the week's engagement of which I have been speaking, I had two nights in the ballet, then again I was cast for an important part. It was a white-letter day for me, professionally, for, thanks to Mr. Davenport, I learned for the first time the immense value of "business" alone, an action unsustained perhaps by a single word. I am not positive, but I believe the play was "A Soldier of Fortune" or "The Lion of St. Mark"--anyway it was a romantic drama. My part was not very long, but it had one most important scene with the hero. It was one of those parts that are talked about so much during the play that they gain a sort of fict.i.tious value. At rehearsal I could not help noticing how fixedly Mr. Davenport kept gazing at me. His frown grew deeper and deeper as I read my lines, and I was growing most desperately frightened, when he suddenly exclaimed: "Wait a minute!" I stopped; he went on roughly, still staring hard at me, "I don't know whether you are worth breaking a vow for or not."

Naturally I had nothing to say. He walked up the stage; as he came down, he said: "I've kept that promise for ten years, but you seem such an honest little soul about your work--I've a good mind, yes, I have a mind----"

He sat down on the edge of the prompt-table, and though he addressed himself seemingly to me alone, the whole company were listening attentively.

"When I first started out starring I honestly believed I had a mission to teach other less experienced actors how to act. I had made a close study of the plays I was to present, as well as of my own especial parts in them, and I actually thought it was my duty to impart my knowledge to those actors who were strange in them. Yes, that's the kind of a fool I was. I used to explain and describe, and show how, and work and sweat, and for my pains I received behind my back curses for keeping them so long at rehearsals, and before my face stolid indifference or a thinly veiled implication that I was grossly insulting them by my minute directions. Both myself and my voice were pretty well used up before I realized that my work had been wasted, my good intentions d.a.m.ned, that I had not been the leaven that could lighten the lump of stupid self-satisfaction we call the 'profession'; and I took solemn oath to myself never again to volunteer any advice, any suggestion, any hint as to reading, or business, or make-up to man or woman in any play of mine.

If they acted well, all right; if they acted ill, all right too. If I found them infernal sticks, I'd leave them sticks. I'd demand just one thing, my _cue_. As long as I got the word to speak on, all the rest might go to the devil! Rehearsals shortened, actors had plenty of time for beer and pretzels; and as I ceased to try to improve their work, they soon called me a good fellow. And now you come along, willing to work, knowing more than some of your elders, yet actually believing there is still something for you to learn. Ambitious, keenly observant, you tempt me to teach you some business for this part, and yet if I do I suppose what goes in at one ear will go out of the other!"

Embarra.s.sed silence on my part.

"Well," he went on, whimsically, "I see this is not your day for making protestations, but I'm going to give you the business, and if you choose to ignore it at night--why, that will serve me right for breaking my promise."

"Mr. Davenport," I said, "I always try to remember what is told me, and I don't see why I should not remember what you say; goodness knows you speak plainly enough," at which, to my troubled surprise, everyone, star and all, burst out laughing, but presently he returned to the play.

"See here," he said, "you, the adventuress, are worsted in this scene.

You sit at the table. I have forced you to sign this paper, yet you say to me: 'You are a fool!' Now, how are you going to say it?"

"I don't know yet," I answered, "I have not heard the whole play through."

"What's that got to do with it?" he asked, sharply.

"Why," I said, "I don't know the story--I don't know whether she is really your enemy, or only injures you on impulse; whether she truly loves anyone, or only makes believe love."

"Good!" he cried, "good! that is sound reasoning. Well, you _are_ my enemy, you love no one, so you see your 'fool' is given with genuine feeling. It's years since the line has drawn fire, but you do this business, and see. You sit, I stand at the opposite side of the table.

You write your name--you are supposed to be crushed. I believe it and tower triumphantly over you. The audience believes it too. Now you lay down your pen--but carefully, mind you, carefully; then close the inkstand, and with very evident caution place it out of danger of a fall.

Be sure you take your time, there are places where deliberation is as effective as ever rush and hurry can be. Then with your cheek upon your hand, or your chin on your clasped hands--any att.i.tude you fancy will do--look at me good and long, and _then_ speak your line. Have you thought yet how to deliver it?"

"Well," I answered, hesitatingly, "to call you a fool in a colloquial tone would make people laugh, I think, and--and the words don't fit a declamatory style. I should think a rather low tone of sneering contempt would be best," and he shouted loudly: "You've hit it square on the head!

Now let's see you do it to-night. Don't look so frightened, my girl, only take your time, don't hurry. I've got to stand there till you speak, if you take all night. Be deliberate; you see, you have played all the rest so fiercely fast, the contrast will tell."

The night came. Cornered, check-mated, I slowly signed the paper, wiped the pen, closed the inkstand, and set it aside. He stood like a statue.

The silence reached the house. I stretched out my arms and rested my crossed hands lightly on the table. I met his glance a moment, then, with a curling lip, let my eyes sweep slowly down length of body to boot-tip and back again, rose slowly, made a little "pouf" with lips and wave of hand, and contemptuously drawled: "My friend, you are a fool!" while, swift and sharp, came the applause Mr. Davenport at least had antic.i.p.ated. The act ended almost immediately, and I hurried to him, crying: "Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Davenport. I never, never could have found applause in a speech like that."

"Ah, it was the business, child, not the speech. Always try to find good business."

"Suit the action to the word?" I laughed.

"Yes," he answered, "and remember, Miss, actions speak louder than words, too! But, my dear, it's a comfort to teach you anything; and when I saw you trying so carefully to follow directions to-night, I swear I almost prayed for the applause you were so honestly earning. You are a brick, my girl! oh, I don't mean one of those measly little common building bricks--I mean a great lovely Roman tile!"